Going it alone

I did it.  I survived one week without my husband.  I'm not saying I want to repeat it anytime soon, but for somebody who relies on her husband a WHOLE lot, I'm pretty proud that the kids, the house, the car and I were all in one piece when Stephen walked through the door Saturday night. 

Lessons learned while flying solo:

1. Not cooking dinner makes all the difference.  Left-overs, frozen food, and eating out were this single mom's best friend.

2. Child #3 is an octupus that I never want to bathe again.  Stephen and I have long held the after-dinner tradition of my doing kitchen duty and his doing bath duty.  With the boys taking their own showers these days and only Millie to clean, I've been feeling like maybe our little arrangement is a little unfair.  "Here I am washing allll these dishes, while all he has to do is wash one kid."  Wrong, wrong, wrong was I.  I'll take dishes over Millie's bath any day.  That child nearly drowned herself and cracked her head open within the span of about thirty seconds.  She's excited to the point of insanity--flipping around like a fish, sticking her head in the water, flinging herself back in the tub! 

3. I like not waking up to an alarm at 6:00 every morning.

4. I do not like sleeping alone.

5. Scheduling fun stuff with friends is, well, a lot of fun, and shouldn't be reserved for only when Stephen's out of town.

6. Dealing with a sickie, and most especially a sickie who's thrown up on himself, without his daddy around to help and comfort him makes for one very sad boy.  Poor Eli.

7.  I need to be more thankful for a loyal husband who loves and dedicates himself to home and family the way Stephen does.  Sometimes I forget just how lucky I am.




Look at this gal, ready to go with her shoes, purse, baby hat (where did she find that thing?) and ball

  


Sunbeam Magic

Guess what I do for the second and third hour of church every Sunday?  Yup, you guessed it.  Teach the three-year-olds, who are as new to Primary as I am, also known as the Sunbeams.  The name is apt.  Those bright, shiny kids, so eager to do what's right and learn about Jesus and His gospel, have warmed, if not melted, my ridiculously-caught-up-in-my-own-worries, cold heart on more than one occasion.  Their sweet innocence reminds me why the Savior tells us to be like little children. 

Not that it's easy being a kid in Primary.  Asking an energetic, naturally-wiggly three-year-old to sit still for two hours is a tall order. And for those of you who don't know what goes on in Primary, which I didn't until I got this calling a few months ago, let me give you a brief run-down: 

1. We sit through Junior Primary with about fifty other six-and-unders, where we sing songs, listen to a lesson directed at all the kids, and of course practice sitting still. 
2. We move into our own classroom where the Sunbeams eat a snack, get a drink and go potty, get some wiggles out, do some coloring, and get to learn a lesson about a very simple gospel principle.  Today was "I am thankful for fish." 

Sounds so basic that you'd think you wouldn't have to prepare, right?  Don't be fooled.  Keeping twelve three-year-olds' attention, even with the help of a co-teacher, long enough to have them not only listen to what you're teaching but also hopefully feel the Spirit takes some premeditation.   You'd be amazed by these kids, though.  Amazed at what their little brains and hearts are capable of understanding and feeling.  Amazed at the power of one simple scipture story like Jonah and the Whale in keeping their undivided attention.  Amazed at how much you can feel the Spirit with such small pockets of quiet and such basic gospel concepts.  Amazed at how much they already know about fish! 

Anyway, my calling has surprised me is what I'm trying to say with this post.  Sure, it's a lot of crowd control.  Sure, it's exhausting (my apologies if I used to chat with you after church and now you only see the back of me as I b-line for the parking lot).  But there's no denying the warmth and happiness I feel from my loving little Sunbeams every week.

The latest with the leg

Bennett got his cast off a few weeks ago, right in the middle of ski week/mid-winter break, and let me tell you how excited I was for that thing to be removed.  Do you know just how stinky an active, six year old boy's leg/foot cast can get after five weeks?  I do.  Soooooooo stinky that you will avoid sitting next to your own child on the couch, because breathing in that fowl stench gets your gag reflex going like a puddle of vomit on the bathroom floor.  So stinky that everything that cast touches on a regular basis -- bedding, couch cushions, carpet, cast shoe, ottoman-- seems like it should be burned it reeks so bad.  So stinky that even though it's chillier than it's been all winter, you have to roll down the windows of your van as you drive just so you can breathe.  I'm feeling sick just thinking about it.

Bennett loved watching that thing get sawed off and seeing all the dirt crusted on his leg underneath.  Then he stood up.  Uh oh.  Not quite what he'd expected. "I want my crutches back" even though he hadn't used those things in weeks, which didn't turn out to be such a bad thing since I forgot to bring his other shoe.  Oops.  Poor kid.  I think he'd honestly expected to just run out of that cast room as soon as it came off, despite all our attempts at explaining muscle atrophy and how he might not be able to play soccer for a while.  He kept telling me, "My leg feels weird.  And squishy."  The x-ray brought good news, however: the bone build-up around the fracture was "superb" as the doc called it, and they wouldn't need to re-cast his leg (I didn't even realize that was an option).  The doctor said the squishy feeling would go away and he'd be back walking on it in a day or so.  He also gave a strict mandate to not play sports for THREE WEEKS, which in Bennett's world translates to three more long weeks of torture.

I expected Benito to nurse the leg a bit the first few days, but five days later I started to get concerned when the strange limp he'd developed persisted and didn't appear to be going anywhere.  Physical therapy started to loom large in my mind, harbinger of yet another something to devour my time and co-payments, so I took action.  Every day B came home from school, I'd make him do calf raises on the step in our living room, make him do high knees to practice putting full weight on his weak leg, and make him walk the length of the house keeping his foot straight.  Not to mention my incessant reminders to "Straighten your foot," "Walk normal," and "Put your weight on it," anything to get that leg stronger and in full use.  I'm happy to report that the gimp has lost the limp and seems to be back to normal.  He's just biding his time with the no sports dictum, which means two soccerless soccer practices and possibly one benched game.  Not bad for a kid whose leg cracked not even two full months ago.

Changing aspirations

I'm driving in the car with Eli yesterday, when out of nowhere, and in all seriousness, he says:

"Mommy, I've decided I don't want to be Santa when I grow up (which he announced a few weeks ago).  I want to be a rock star."

"Why do you want to be a rock star?"

"I just want to."

I shake my head and wonder where this kid comes up with this stuff.  But then I realize we do have a habit of turning on loud, get-you-going, ignore-the-task-at-hand music in our house for cleaning up together, and Daddy has been busting out some of his favorite hair bands lately.  You should see those three boys rock out together.  Seriously funny.  Angry head nods, game-face expressions, legs planted in guitar solo stance with one leg thumping to the beat, and of course the hands working the air guitar and/or mic the whole time.  I wish you could see it.  Then again, if Eli sticks to his guns, you will get to see it when he grows up and becomes a ROCK STAR!

Photo vote

HELP!  Costco's canvas enlargements are on sale this month, and I'm hoping to take advantage with some much-needed, updated shots of Millie.  Thanks to Liz and her camera, the orchard down the street, and some sunny sun this afternoon, I have some options.  The only problem = I can't decide which one to enlarge.  If you have a minute, cast a quick vote and help a gal out.  Thanks, y'all.





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To see more of the shots, go here.

Welcome winter weather

With all the cold rain of late, it's nice to remember the sunny seventies we were enjoying only a few weeks ago. Although we happened to hit a rather windy afternoon/evening at Capitola Beach (all the locals were telling us everybody had their swimsuits and surfboards out just the day before), it was still nice to feel the sand between our toes and the ocean air against our cheeks. There's something mesmerizing about the sound of those waves, too, especially after I haven't heard them for quite a few months. We flew kites, threw footballs and frisbees, dug and built in the sand, chased dogs--okay, just Millie on that one, and ate pizza for dinner.

I've said it before about early February being graced with unexpected sunshine, and while I don't know why it happens, I sure do like that it does. Flip flops and t-shirts make their early debut, "popcorn popping" trees bloom full force, the frontyard and backyard get a whole lot more use, and date night moves outdoors for some tennis at the park. It reminds me of what I've been missing the past four months and what I have to look forward to in another two or three.

Where credit is due

After reading that last post about having Stephen around on a Sunday, I realize it sounds like I normally do everything on my own while he's handling his bishopric duties.  Not true.  Not true at all, in fact.  Sure, we miss him in the morning and afternoon when it is just the four of us at home, but the hardest part of Sunday--right before, during, and after church--is survived only because we have so much help from the amazing Liz Boyd. 

She comes down at 8:30 in the morning, utterly exhausted from just having worked twelve hours at the hospital (oftentimes her second or third night shift in a row, mind you) to change poopy diapers, dress squirmy kids, pack up snacks, comb and gel snarly hair, and generally save the day.  Then she sits through sacrament meeting with us, playing, reading, disciplining, and putting up with my hooligan children, when I'm sure she'd rather just put her head down and take a well-earned nap like all the other tired folks in the chapel.  It's not over, either.  She drops off and picks up Millie from nursery so I can take care of the sunbeams in primary, she comes home and puts Millie down for a a nap while I feed the boys lunch, and then for the first time all day gets to think about her own needs and wants.

Let's be honest.  If it weren't for Liz, I would very likely be one of those stories:  "She went inactive after her husband got called into the bishopric.  All very strange. . .  people say she used to come to church regularly, but now that he's so busy and she has those three crazy kids to take care of herself, well, she just can't do it."  There is no way I could survive Sundays without her.  Plain and simple.  Heck, I couldn't survive most days without her.  She is my daily dose of adult sanity, my late afternoon support when I feel ready to throw in the towel with my kids and their attitudes, my sounding board for so many ridiculous things that she patiently puts up with sans complaint, my BF who goes so far above and beyond the call of duty that I get overwhelmed with gratitude just thinking about it. 



With her cousin in D-land

 Her move out here a few years ago, although at the time it was a decision for and about her own life, has blessed my life and my little family more than I ever could have imagined.  I feel like the Lord inspired that decision for both of us.  So here's giving credit where credit is due.  To the kind, generous, patient, funny, smart, hard-working  gal who saves my bacon every Sunday morning and then some.